


Love Dwells Not In Our Will

by Ye Olde Soul (beneath_my_marred_skin)



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hijack, M/M, Slow Build, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneath_my_marred_skin/pseuds/Ye%20Olde%20Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p> Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,<br/>And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.<br/>Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot<br/>To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.<br/></p>
</blockquote><cite> -Love and Death, by Lord Byron </cite><p>*on hiatus until further notice</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Man in the Moon was a very patient man. A very patient, powerful and immortal man. 

But very long ago, before he was the Man in the Moon, he was just a man. A man who desperately wanted something. 

Manny had always been alone, unwanted and unknowing of where he belonged. His existence was empty and lonely. And more than anything, it was love he desired.

Any kind of love would do, he would think to himself often, any love at all. 

And one day, he met a woman. 

This woman was unlike any other he had ever encountered. He was drawn to her, inexplicably, gravitationally. 

She regarded him with curled lips, appraising him coldly and condescendingly. Yet still, she was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Manny cared not what expression she wore, nothing could mar her profound perfection. 

In that moment, he knew he would do anything for her. 

Her name was Earth, Manny learned. He learned many things about her. 

Earth was in love with the Sun. But Sun was a fiery ball of egomania and narcissism. Earth circled him each day, in hopes of catching his attention and yet she could not. And though Earth deeply loved Sun and could not resist him, she still desired a companion. Someone to circle her for a change, to worship and love her as she worshipped and loved Sun. 

"Do you love me?" Earth asked Manny abruptly. 

Perhaps if Manny knew a bit more about love, he would've chosen his words more carefully. 

He declared, "With all my heart."

And so Manny became the Man in the Moon.

Each day, he circled Earth, lavishing her with his adoration and love. In the night, as the period of darkness where the Sun couldn't be bothered to shine for Earth became known, Manny had her all to himself. And for a time, the Man in the Moon was happy. 

But soon, he realized that it is horrifically painful to love one who does not love you in return. The Man in the Moon only reflected the Sun's light, he was merely a stand-in for when Sun was not there. He was second choice, always. 

Manny was lonelier and more empty than ever before. He cried many tears, and they splattered the black night with spots of radiant light. They hung there alongside him, glimmering and inescapable. Thus, Manny's only company was his own grief. 

After an immeasurable amount of time and an endless number of circles, mortals began to wander the realm. 

Manny was grateful for something besides his own eternal longing and lonesomeness, and grew fond of humankind, watching over them in fascination and delight. 

However, Earth was jealous and hateful of anything that distracted her Moon from her glory, and so vowed to make life as miserable as possible for the mortals who dared to steal Manny's attention. 

She rumbled fiercely and unleashed corrosive red fury that took all in its path, onslaughts of water that flooded and drowned, tumbling boulders to crush and squish. From the shadows she produced a terrible creature. The King of Nightmares as she called him; the very essence of fear and misery, and she unleashed him on the world. 

Inexorable was her wrath, and so was the pain and death of mortals. 

Manny ached for the loss, and yearned to protect the blameless mortals from this cruelty, as it began to corrupt their innocence and break their spirits. Alas, no matter how he shouted and pleaded, humans could not hear his warnings. He was powerless against Earth's fury. 

Over time, Manny noticed a pattern. There were simply some mortals who possessed... Something special. Something that, somehow, cut through the gloom and despair, something that inspired joy and light in the darkness around them. Wherever they went, happiness seemed to follow and it was catching, infectious. 

It was these mortals specifically that Earth killed. 

She feared that they would dispel her perfect darkness. 

Manny decided that these were exactly the kind of people who needed to be around forever, not ripped from the world so soon. These were the souls who could carry out his mission. 

So, whenever such people were dying, barely inches from death, Manny bled some of his own immortality into their bodies. 

"You were chosen," he would tell them softly. He could speak to them now. He had given them a piece of himself; they were linked to him and he to them. 

"You were chosen to protect humankind from the dangers of the world. You are a Guardian."

After more time still, Manny noticed another pattern and had an epiphany. 

Children were the most important creatures to exist. 

If their pureness was touched by the evils of the world around them, without wonder, hope, dreams and memories to protect them, they grew bitter and became the evil by which they were corrupted. The cycle would continue if not stopped. 

And so the Guardians protected children above all else. And the world finally began to come out of the dark. 

And for a time the Man in the Moon was less empty, less lonesome. He served a purpose, other than to worship a petty, spiteful woman whom he loved despite all that he tried not to. He was, in the very loosest sense of the word, happy. 

However, this is not the Man in the Moon's story. This is a story of friendship, of forbidden relations and the accidental intwining of two souls that would change fate irrevocably, forever. 

And it begins like so:

Once upon a time, Jack Frost fell in love.


	2. Accidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “And it is great
>> 
>> To do that thing that ends all other deeds,
>> 
>> Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change.”  
> 
>>
>>> -William Shakespeare

Many things in the world are accidents.

Some are mediocre, like spilling a bit of food or slipping on a patch of ice. Others are monumental and irreversible, like the conceiving of a child or death.

Somewhere on the spectrum of accidents great and small, there is falling in love. Becoming so attached to someone, so infatuated and invested that ripping yourself away from them is unthinkable, excruciating to even ponder; there is no way to produce those feelings at will. By the contrary, the truest forms of love are often against our will.

And so it is utterly useless for Jack Frost to fight against his situation any longer. Jack, however ridiculously, however in vain, however accidental, had fallen in love.

Jack Frost had never had any real connection to the world around him. He was alone, invisible. Raised from a frozen lake so many years ago that he had lost track, by a glowing orb in the sky who whispered nothing but the declaration of Jack’s name and nothing since. Jack had no one. No one could see him, or hear him. People could walk right through him.

Jack sometimes wondered if he was some sort of terrible accident, and this exile would be his eternal punishment.

And then Jack found Hiccup.

Jack, long ago, had dubbed the Isle of Berk as his favorite spot. He could bury the entire island in snow, and the inhabitants wouldn’t so much as bat an eyelash. The Vikings expected the furiously cold weather, counted on it even. His snow, the ice and wind and chill that was a part of him, was a part of their lives. It made Jack feel like he was a part of their lives. Almost as if they needed him. Sometimes, they would whisper for more or less snow, pleading and looking to the sky, as if they knew it was him there, knew it was he who brought the weather.

In all his many years of observing people, of getting to see the best and worst of them, of knowing their secrets large and insipid (you have quite an advantage when people think they’re alone), Jack had never come across anyone quite like the boy whom everyone called Hiccup.

He was odd. Very odd. Especially for a Viking.

For one thing, he was very small. Coming from people who rivaled entire buildings in size, Hiccup’s stature was less than impressive. He could duck under people’s arms without them even noticing, and Jack was sure if someone was being especially inattentive, they could step on him. The Vikings were built for battle, Hiccup was barely built at all. But for a little guy, boy, he could sure cause a lot of damage.

Not only did Hiccup look different, he also acted differently from the rest of the Vikings. Hiccup was awkward and tripped over his words almost as much as he tripped over his own feet. He babbled and played with his hands and swung his arms as he spoke. The most anyone else on the island ever really did was stand there staring at you with tight lips and cold eyes. Unless, of course they were hitting you.

Vikings tended to solve their problems with violence.

Dragons? War.

Power? Intensely bloody sparring match.

Title of best warrior? Let’s throw all our kids in a ring with a bunch of fire-breathing reptiles.

War was a part of their lifestyle. Yet another reason, Jack saw, why Hiccup didn’t fit in. Hiccup was inventive and clever, he thought about things. He created weapons and tools to do what his own scrawny arms could not.

Hiccup was as reckless as his kind, that was for sure, but it was a different kind of reckless. Perhaps even a more foolhardy kind. Vikings charged toward danger, weapons drawn and screaming battle cries, ready to kill, ready to win. Hiccup approached danger quietly and alone, so close to death that his nose was practically in it, all for the sake of curiosity.

He wondered what things were, and how and why. He questioned things like tradition, things that had always been, when everyone else just accepted it.

And it was for all these reasons that no one listened to Hiccup. That no one looked at him. He was practically invisible. People thought he was a nuisance, a big screw-up that they’d be better off without. A hiccup. An accident.

Jack was fascinated, he was joyous. Hiccup was like him. Someone understood! How peculiar, and how perfect.

It must have been fate, Jack thought one day in a fervor, it must have been meant to be, his coming to Berk. He and Hiccup were meant to have found each other, it had to have been so.

  
There was just one small problem. Jack had indeed found Hiccup, but Hiccup had not found Jack.

Hiccup couldn’t see him.

Jack, foolishly, had hoped against all odds that Hiccup would be different from the rest, in this aspect as well. But apparently fate wasn’t as merciful as Jack thought.

  
It was torture of the worst kind. Mostly because it was self-inflicted. Jack could’ve left at any point, but he never did. Logically speaking, Hiccup wasn’t controlling him. How could he, when he didn’t even know Jack existed?

But the way Jack felt was another matter, as emotions often are. He was drawn to the mortal boy, as he had never been to any other.

He was bound, shackled by chains that chaffed his skin and bloodied his wrists. He held the key to the shackles in his very own palm, and yet he never used it. Because as miserable as the perpetual agony was, he enjoyed it, and he wanted it. He needed it.

He enjoyed looking at Hiccup, at staring at his face for hours so that he could memorize each freckle and dimple. He relished in the sound of Hiccup’s voice, laughed at his sarcastic musings. Jack marveled at Hiccup’s determination, his stubbornness, and his kindness, at everything he was.  
Hiccup soon became Jack’s entire world.

Hiccup made for a very complicated world. He was recklessly brave and impulsive, and he tried to what was right even when he knew it would kill him. Hiccup caused Jack more stress than he’d ever thought possible.

But then Hiccup would do something, some trivial really, like smiling or throwing his hands up and shouting in delight as he soared through the air on the back of a vicious, black beast of a dragon. And Jack would smile, and laugh with the boy who couldn’t see him.

Once, Jack did make use of the key. Just once.

Astrid is a name that leaves a bitter taste in Jack’s mouth. It is also a name that puts a goofy smile on Hiccup’s face.

Jack was always aware of Hiccup’s infatuation with the blonde girl. And it burned him, of course, rubbed salt in his ever re-opening wounds. But Astrid seemed focused on nothing but her own victory, and as Hiccup started to become a threat to that success, she began to despise him more than ever before. Jack thought it was safe, he hadn’t thought anything could ever happen there. It was selfish to be glad about that, he knew, but he was in love.

But then she kissed him. Hiccup took her for a ride on Toothless, and she was amazed at Hiccup and what he’d found, at what he’d done. She’d gotten a glimpse, just a tiny glimpse, finally, of what Jack had seen in Hiccup all along! And then she kissed him, kissed Jack’s Hiccup.

And Jack was there to witness all of it. He watched the exchange happen, fast as a lightning flash, and saw the moony smile take Hiccup’s lips and the red that spread across his cheeks. He liked her, and she liked him.

Jack’s heart shattered like cracking ice, and his world came crashing down around him. How stupid he was, how utterly ridiculous that he deluded himself into thinking that Hiccup could ever be his. Jack had no claim to the boy, the boy did not love him. Hiccup didn’t know that Jack existed, he didn’t know that Jack was entirely devoted to him, that Jack would do anything and everything to make Hiccup smile. Didn’t know that Jack would do anything at all to make sure Hiccup was safe and happy, he didn’t know that Jack loved him so.

Hiccup couldn’t see him.

Jack was as alone as he always had been, and he couldn’t kid himself otherwise.

For the first time, Jack cast off his chains, full of rage and sorrow. He flew away from Berk without looking back, because he knew if he looked, he wouldn’t leave.

Jack vowed never to return to Berk, never to return to the world of endless torment and hopeless longing. And he kept that promise for all of three days.

It came to Jack as he sat on a mountain top, swirling icy storms around himself, the worry. Blinded and numbed by his own emotions, he’d forgotten all about Hiccup’s circumstances. About Toothless, the Queen Dragon, and the Monstrous Nightmare that Hiccup was definitely not going to kill. Jack was worried, incredibly so.

It’s not my place to worry, Jack reminded himself weakly. I have no place in his life.

Yet, it ate at Jack, the concern, the fear until it was all he could think of. What if Hiccup ran away like he had planned? What if he was alone and cold with no one but Toothless? What if he did something stupid, something crazy? He could be exiled, or hurt, or dead.

Jack didn’t know. And he needed to. He had to know that Hiccup was okay, he needed to know.

A steady mantra built in Jack’s head. Hiccup, Hiccup, Hiccup.

It looped through his head over and over again, Hiccup, Hiccup, Hiccup, and nothing else as he sped back to Berk as fast as the wind could carry him. Excruciatingly, the closer he got, the worse he felt. Jack was in a frenzy. Hiccup’s name began to spill from his lips, as if everything within him was slopping over the sides, as if his body could not contain all that he felt for the mortal.

“Hiccup, Hiccup, Hiccup…”

And then the island was in sight. “Hiccup. Hiccup. Hiccup.”

The big house on the hill… “Hiccup! Hiccup! Hiccup!”

Jack burst through the front door, zipping past an alarmed Stoick, and up the stairs to Hiccup’s bedroom. Jack knew this house better than the back of his hand. He threw the bedroom door open with such force it reverberated off the wall and slammed shut behind him.

He hadn’t known what to expect. He hadn’t known whether the room would be empty, or not, he hadn’t even known if Hiccup would be at the house. Jack hadn’t had an actual conscious thought past-

“Hiccup…”

The wind was knocked from Jack, and he fell out of the air in shock. His feet hit the floor with dull plunks. It was like suddenly the world stopped, like everything froze in its motions. It was all dark around the edges of his vision, fuzzy and black. All he could see was-

“Oh, Hiccup…”

Jack whirled. This time the words did not come from him.

Stoick stood in the doorway, red-faced and looking frazzled. His eyes held the anguished panic that was beginning to drip into Jack.

Jack hadn’t heard the quaking steps of Stoick’s large footfalls running up the staircase. Stoick had heard the slam of the door and come to check on his son. His unconscious, bedridden son.

Hiccup looked like death. If he hadn’t seen the sickeningly shallow rise and fall of the boy’s frail chest, Jack would’ve assumed he was. Hiccup’s face was littered with gashes and scratches, bruises and burns. His skin was sickly pale, tinted green and sheened with sweat. He looked tiny, swallowed up by the sheets of his bed. So frail, so broken.

“What happened?” Jack demanded, of who, he wasn’t sure. No one could answer him. His Hiccup was lying motionless in a bed of bloodstained sheets, looking pained even in unconsciousness, twitching and whining under his breath, and no one could even tell Jack what was wrong.

Jack hovered at the headboard, as Stoick sunk onto a stool at the bedside. Stoick sighed so deeply that his great shoulders shook. It was only when Jack heard the loud, wet sniffle that he realized Stoick was crying. Sobbing.

“Hiccup… Oh, son…” He said tremulously, “This all my fault. I-I shoulda lis’ened to ya. None o’ this woulda happened if I jus’… Oh, and now look at’cha. Near dead, because o’ my mistakes.”

Jack knew he should have felt intrusive. But he and Stoick were sharing the same grief, were in the same boat. Their most important person was fatally wounded, and they both felt it was their fault.

Jack had left. Jack left. Hiccup was involved in something that almost got him killed, and Jack hadn’t been there.

“I should have been there with you,” Jack whispered. His lower lip trembled, and he reached out to brush his fingers over Hiccup’s clammy forehead. “I’m so sorry, Hiccup.”

Hiccup stirred minimally, a shuddering exhale escaping his lips. His brow furrowed and he mumbled under his breath, before stilling once more.

Later, Jack, having gathered bits and pieces from Hiccup’s visitors’ conversations, found out that Hiccup had told his secrets in the Dragon Training ring. He’d tried to convince his people that dragons were not what they thought, tried to explain what he’d learned; that dragons were in fact not the vile, bloodthirsty creatures Vikings thought they were. He tried to demonstrate on the Monstrous Nightmare he was meant to kill. His plan backfired and the Nightmare ended up almost killing Hiccup instead. Stoick was not pleased with his son’s lies nor with his son’s traitorous actions.

Jack understands that Toothless exposed himself. He’d come to Hiccup’s side, even crippled, without the means to fly, from all the way across the island. Despite everything that held him back, the dragon had come to Hiccup’s side when Hiccup was in danger.

Jack is a bit fuzzy on the details, but from what he can tell Stoick used Toothless to locate the dragons’ nest, to accomplish his ultimate goal; being rid of the dragons forever. And somehow Hiccup ended up there, and somehow Hiccup ended up defeating the Red Death, the mighty Queen Dragon. And then Hiccup was swallowed in the inferno that resulted.

But Toothless was there. Toothless protected Hiccup. Hiccup was alive because of that big, ferocious, pet of a reptile, and Jack would be eternally grateful.

Even so, accidents are always bound to happen.

That is why Hiccup had not woken up for two days. That is why Hiccup’s left leg is missing.

Jack runs his hand over the empty space below Hiccup’s knee. He sits on the bed beside the unconscious boy, watching, quiet. Jack had seen what was beneath Hiccup’s bandages, had seen the “stump” of what was left of Hiccup’s beautiful limb. His breath catches in his throat.

He presses his lips to Hiccup’s forehead, gently, like a fallen snowflake. He feels the soft, slick skin beneath his lips, but he hardly registers it.

“I’ll never leave you again,” Jack promises in a whisper. The shackles are back on, and Jack has swallowed the key.

Jack leans over, above Hiccup’s twisted, comatose face. He feels tears slip past his eyes and slide down his cheeks. They drip onto the fallen warrior’s hairline, wet, leaving visible dark spots in the matted auburn. Jack does not notice.

High above, the Man in the Moon jerks as he feels an odd stinging feeling prick him all over.


	3. Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ocean separates lands, not souls.”   
> ― Munia Khan

Hiccup is unconscious.

_Blessed darkness, blessed blindness._

_So calm and black. Like swimming, or maybe drowning, in an endless ocean of shadows, tipping and sinking, floating and falling. It is a nice break from real life. Real life, so full of noise and problems and colors._

_Colors._

_The color red. Like fire._

_Fire. Fire is hot. Hot and red._

_Like blood._

_Blood, blood, so much blood…_

_Red, is the last color Hiccup will remember when he wakes up. If he wakes up._

_Red is other things too. It is the evening sun, low in the sky. Sinking, sinking, sinking…_

_Sinking behind hills and mountains, into the water, to make way for the dark of night. Perhaps the sun sinks into the blind ocean of blackness too._

_The sun swims to make way for the moon. The **moon**._

_It breaks through the darkness. It illuminates, its light ripples in all directions. A great shining pearl in the murk of ocean._

Hiccup shudders.

_Something is pulling. Pulling, forward and forward and forward._

_Things are stirring. Sounds. Real life sounds. But fuzzy, blurred…_

_No, sounds cannot be blurred. Colors can, they can be blurred and smudged._

_Like blood. Red._

_So much red, only red, drowning in red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red –_

_Blue._

_Blue. No, blue is not red…_

_Red is lava, corrosive and hot, coursing and burning –_

_Blue is not red at all._

_Blue is soft, but sharp. Tingly._

_Blue is cold. It is the sky and the water._

_Water. Wet._

_Something wet is dripping, it is sliding down and down, Hiccup feels it._

_The real life sounds are getting louder. Clearer._

_Someone’s voice. Hiccup knows it. He has never heard it before, but he knows it. It is murmuring to him. He can’t tell what it is saying, the real life sounds are not quite as they are meant to be, but whatever it is makes him **feel** …_

_The pulling is getting stronger._

_The darkness of the ocean is fading. He is floating near the top now, he can almost break the surface…_

_Cold. Cold, he feels it, close, so close._

_Fingers? Cold fingers. Soft, gentle, loving._

_**Blue**._

Hiccup is awake.


	4. Significance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The conversation between your fingers and someone else’s skin. This is the most important discussion you can ever have.”
> 
> ― Iain Thomas

Jack has never slept. Not that he remembers.

That’s not to say he’s never known tiredness. Honestly, he probably knows tiredness better than any mortal.

Except Jack doesn’t know aching bones or sore muscles. He doesn’t know the need to stop or slow down or rest his head and close eyes that blur and sting. Jack knows nothing of physical exhaustion.

Jack does know what it’s like to be tired of thinking the same thoughts, day after day, year after year, an endless cycle that starts to blur together until he can’t place where he began. Of walking, running, flying around, watching from the outside and never being able to reach in and be a part of the life he saw. He knows what it is to be tired of life.

He knows what it is to be tired of being.

He lies next to Hiccup, shifting out of habit rather than discomfort on the bed. He guesses after watching humans for so long, it makes sense that he would act like them. It’s not like he’s been taught to be anything else.

He woke up alone. He lives life alone. Humans are the only interesting thing he’s ever found. Sure, other magical beings existed but they were all the same. Stuffy and “wise”, young on the outside but old on the inside, and they treated him like a child. Sneered at his affinity for humans, or worse, rubbed his nose in the fact that humans, or human children at least, could see them. Believed in them, and not Jack, because Jack is defective, Jack is a mistake, Jack is…

Jack is crying. Again.

It’s funny, before Hiccup, Jack didn’t cry much. Hysterical laughter always seemed like a better option – it shook his chest the same way but without the hot feeling behind his eyes. Now all Jack can seem to do is cry.

He knows crying among Vikings isn’t normal. Though, it seems everyone who visits Hiccup’s sickbed is moved to tears anyway. Maybe it’s from seeing one of their own so near death. Or perhaps empathy for Stoick’s position. And maybe, just maybe, it’s because they feel guilty for not appreciating all that Hiccup was – is, _is_ – until it seems they might not have it anymore.

Whatever the cause of the Vikings’ crying, their bouts of tears are far less in quantity and frequency than Jack’s.

While Jack cries, Hiccup remains unconscious. It’s sort of become their routine over the past two and a half weeks.

Jack sobs, Hiccup sleeps.

Jack laughs through his tears, an odd spluttering noise.

“Look at the pair of us, huh, Hic?” Jack rasps to the boy, tasting the warm, salty liquid dripping down his face, “I’m a fountain, and you’re fucking hibernating. We’re hopeless, aren’t we?”

He wipes the stream with the sleeve of his shirt, but the tears continue to fall. Jack wonders if it’s possible to cry forever. Why not, right? He has to live forever, and it this rate it looks like he’ll have nothing better to do with his time.

He sobs harder, fingers clenching tight around the bedsheets.

“I miss you, Hiccup,” Jack chokes, and _gods_ , he swears he knows what dying feels like in this very moment, “I fucking miss you, okay? I want you to come back, come back to me, please, Hiccup. Please, Hiccup, please, please…”

He continues to whisper miserably to the boy who can’t hear him, who never could, and most probably never will. He leans closer anyway.

“Just listen, okay?” He hisses urgently, “You’re the only thing that’s ever really mattered to me, you know? You’re the only thing in a really, really long time that’s actually made me want to – wanna _be_ anything at all and I – I don’t want that to go away, I _can’t_ handle it if _you_ go away, Hic, you’re too important, _you’re everything_ , don’t you understand? You’re everything.”

Hiccup says nothing.

Jack breathes hard in the silence, searching the empty face of the comatose boy, because _dammit_ he feels like his confession should be sort of important. Like it should do _something_ , should _mean something_. Why can’t Jack be fucking important for once, just once, literally ever?

He watches numbly as his tears drip onto Hiccup’s sweaty brow, and still Hiccup does nothing, nothing, nothing happens and –

Jack **_screams_** , “Why doesn’t the fact that I need you count for _anything_?! _Why doesn’t it matter that I fucking love you more than anything_!”

Jack grabs Hiccup’s limp hand, and –

“SHIT!”

Jack jerks back so violently that he flies into the opposite wall. He presses himself against the wall and stares at Hiccup’s still form, trying to understand. His entire universe is rippling, his eyes are fuzzy around the edges. He rakes a hand through his hair.

He _touched_ Hiccup. Jack grasped his clammy, unmoving hand and it was _real_ , real contact, Hiccup didn’t go through him, he didn’t! Jack was solid, and real, and…

He wants to do it again.

He creeps back towards the bed, and crawls onto it more carefully than he’s ever done anything. He crouches beside Hiccup, and everything inside him tingles as he reaches out again. As he does, he comes to realize, that he’s done this before; he recalls a kiss planted on Hiccup’s forehead some two weeks ago and he thinks of all the tears that have left tiny raindrops on Hiccup’s skin day after day.

He’s _been_ touching Hiccup.

Jack laces their fingers, and he sighs aloud. He has never felt so real, so alive, and he thinks he feels something unfurl his chest and something hot race through his veins.

He wonders if this is what it’s like to be human. 

"This is impossible," He says softly, as though this is a secret, their secret. "I should only be able to touch you if you believe."

The thought jolts through Jack. Either he's done the absolutely impossible, he's broken the rules, the unspoken, unwritten rules that say _ **if you aren't believed in, then you're virtually not real at all**_ , and somehow breached a barrier into the mortal world, or...

"Hiccup believes in me."

Jack runs his free fingers along Hiccup’s hairline and his nose and jaw, and traces his thumb along Hiccup’s lower lip. If it wasn’t totally weird and creepy to kiss the mouth of a person he’s a stranger to while they’re comatose, Jack is certain he would.

Hiccup believes in him. Jack's head is spinning, his hands are shaking, he feels like he could fly until the entire world is a speck behind him. Nothing matters anymore, because Hiccup can touch him, Hiccup can see him.

Except that Hiccup can't.

Jack lays down beside Hiccup and pulls the boy to him, making sure to support his lolling head. Jack presses his nose to Hiccup’s hair and breathes deeply. He smells horrible, like sweat and blood, burned skin and singed clothing, and Jack begins to cry again.

He didn’t know it was possible to be so incredibly happy and so desperately empty at once.

“I love you,” he whispers mournfully, shuddering as his lips catch around the shell of Hiccup’s ear.

Hiccup rolls over in Jack’s arms and Jack freezes.

The mortal boy groans, and shivers from head to toe. Jack tightens his hands around the back of the boy’s shirt.

“ _Hiccup_?” Jack asks, and the name catches in his throat, because he’s still crying and he can hardly bring himself to hope –

“ ** _Jack_**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Jack witnessing Hiccup waking up, the parallel experience to chapter three, same event, different point of view.  
> -xox YOS


	5. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “I see a world on the edge of a blade. Without balance, it will fall.”  
> ― Victoria Aveyard, Red Queen  
> 

The night is still.

Trees whisper in the wind, their leaves bearing silent messages as they dance on the wind; autumn is coming soon. The last days of summer are stretching their final legs before their long rest, and blazing sun will soon give way to grey skies and harvest moons. After autumn’s chill sets in the world’s bones, winter is to spread its blanket of white and frost over evergreens and barren oaks, effectively enveloping the ground in layers of snow and sparkling ice. After winter, spring will thaw away winter’s biting freeze, revealing rollicking hills of verdant grass, and up will pop newborn wildflowers, eager to stretch in the sun.

And then it begins over again. And again, and again.

It is a well-beaten path, a dance so old that the steps are imprinted in the earth for eternity. It is infinite, everlasting. It maintains order, balance; people keep time by it, mark their puny lives with fallen leaves and butterflies; animals retreat and return because of it, as instinctual as the tide straying, before returning to kiss the shore again.

But this year, something is off.

Above forests, mountain peaks, and a blazing lightning storm, the Man in the Moon is pensive.

This year, he muses to himself, the dance is sluggish. Summer is lengthy, greedy for more time than is allowed; the crackle of her radiant heat does not yet fade as it should. Autumn does not seem to be in a particular hurry to rush her off either, despite the red and gold leaves decorating the treetops in the quiet, steady glow of an ember.

Yes, things are not quite as they ought to be.

Manny, too, is feeling more tired than he has in eons; his full moon does not shine as luminescent as legends have foretold. He is dwindling. Waning.

Frequently, sharp pains have begun to prick his immortal bones without warning, leaving him clutching at his chest and falling to his knees. But his silver blood runs stronger than ever, and he is in no danger of fading from the world, physical or otherwise.

He feels the winds of change chilling his bones brittle.

The Man in the Moon has long since pledged himself to the mortal world, to keeping the fickle planet spinning as it should, cushioning the ragged terrain beneath humans’ feet. He knows that in order to place people above him, regardless of how tiny their lives may prove to be, he must sacrifice.

Perhaps, after centuries of keeping his heart locked in a chest, of channeling his energies into keeping mortals going, at the expense of himself and those sharing his everlasting life – perhaps, he has become blind to the small beauties and fleeting wonders which had once so entirely enraptured him, so many moons ago, about the world he watches over.

But this does not occur to him. And if it does, it does not distress him.

What distresses him is this sudden loss of order. And the knowledge that one particular immortal has no inkling of the great cause to which Manny has dedicated his life.

He has been especially careful to drill into every creature affiliated with himself, that the prosperity of the mortal world is to be maintained above all else. Sometimes, this can come with heartbreak, with being detached from the humans around them bursting with life and passion. But for most, it comes with being a legend, a virtual saint, a _hero_.

But Jack Frost is none of those things. Jack Frost has never been told the ancient ways that Manny founded when he made the world his home.

Jack Frost is alone.

He plays his part in the dance of the seasons, in keeping the world turning, but he has no sense of community. No feelings of being one with his fellow spirits, of serving a greater purpose. Jack Frost answers to no one, no one but himself, and so had it been for decades. It’s perfectly logical that he should stray.

Manny knows that this is his own doing.

It is his own fault. He had created Jack Frost on a whim. The world was at odds at the time; the nature spirits were bordering on war. Winter had been growing out of control without an overseer, and though Manny had managed the season himself in years past, he found himself increasingly busy with managing the rapid growth of the human population. So when Jackson Overland had died, Manny had plucked his soul, gave Jackson his own blood, and a brand new name.

Manny found that he had trouble containing his new disciple. Jack was extremely emotional, and more attached to his mortal origins than any other Manny had ever come across. The boy stayed rooted to the pond in which he drowned, and had even taken to following his mortal sister around, attempting to make contact with her.

Frustrated, and irritable with stress, Manny had acted brashly. After several weeks of Jack Frost’s insubordination, Manny stole his mortal memories. It was unorthodox, and perhaps even malicious, but his concerns were elsewhere. In the thick of his own responsibilities, Manny soon forgot about Jack.

Now, years later, Manny’s own rashness has come back for him.

With no ties, mortal nor immortal, Jack Frost had wandered, and become particularly attached to humans.

It reminded Manny of himself, and he had at first been sort of tickled by Frost’s fascination with them. He saw no harm; Jack was a spirit, but he was no Guardian. Nor any other famed sprite or esteemed elf. Though his human heritage gave him the capability to speak with mortal folk, they did not believe in Jack. Jack simply didn’t have the means to upset the balance.

Until now, it would seem.

In recent years, Jack has become rather obsessed with a mortal in the snowier areas of the globe. Jack seems to feel some sort of kinship with the child; from what Manny understands he too is quite the misfit.

Manny had thought that Jack would eventually move on. The human boy had surpassed the age of even the most optimistic of believers. After a certain age, mortals tended to fling away their association with creatures or forces greater than themselves. It was selfish, and a bit egotistical, in Manny’s opinion – but it was just as well. If people continued to rely on the Guardians for happiness and light, they would never learn to produce it on their own.

It was a delicate equilibrium, one that Manny has given everything to cultivate and maintain.

And one of his own threatened to disrupt it.

Because although the mortal child – Hiccup, he believed they called it – had previously shed his baby skin and his beliefs in the magical, it appears that he has shrugged his childhood back on like a well-worn coat.

Manny almost doesn’t know what to make of it.

The child has shown inclinations as to believe in even the most impossible things, and his imagination is remarkably lucid. Perhaps the Hiccup is merely experiencing a relapse of sorts, or maybe he’s simply questioning his own existence and the implications of the universe – Manny understands that children bordering on adulthood are sometimes apt to such behavior.

Of course, the child had just recently suffered a near-death experience. It was an amazing feat that the mortal managed to survive, if Manny does say so himself. Manny would give the credit to his dragon familiar – truly remarkable beasts – but he knows better. He suspects the Hiccup’s recovery was more correctly attributed to stubbornness. That, Manny can admire.

Whatever the case, sometimes when mortals come so close to kissing death, their souls still linger fractionally in the immortal plane. Most probably, this is the cause of the child’s ability to see Frost.

If so, Manny knows, then it should wear off eventually, and the Hiccup will most likely chalk it up to stress or the haziness of his state of mind after awakening from his deep slumber. In which case, Manny will not need to intervene.

He hopes this is the case.

Still. He feels unease unfolding thick in his heart. Jack Frost, the troublemaker – he would be the one to start up a ruckus, wouldn’t he? But Manny had resolved long ago not to allow _anyone_ to throw the mortal plane into chaos – let alone one of his own creations.

If the moon gleams brighter or settles closer on the horizon than normal, the Isle of Berk pays no mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suckkkkkk - I'm so sorry, a year between each (mediocre) update? Y'all deserve better...


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